


Are You My Boyfriend?

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dating, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4907122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke doesn’t like being told what to do, especially by some psychic quack claiming she talks to ghosts, but she will do a lot to get her mother off her back, especially when it comes to dating. Bellamy just happens to get caught in the crossfire–his fault for wearing the wrong, or right, colored t-shirt–but Clarke may have just underestimated the power of the universe when it comes to her love life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You My Boyfriend?

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my life in the sense that my mother’s medium told her I was dating someone (I am not) who wears a lot of white t-shirts (because that is a totally specific, non-vague detail, yes of course). The similarities end there, but it did make for great story inspiration. Title is a play on the title of the P.D. Eastman picture book Are You My Mother?

**Mom – 8:28 pm**

_So when were you going to tell me you’re dating someone?_

 

**Clarke – 8:29 pm**

_Never? Because I’m not?_

**Mom – 8:29 pm**

_You can tell me, you know. If you are._

**Clarke – 8:30 pm**

_Mom, I’m not dating anyone. I barely have time to do laundry or groceries. You do remember what med school is like?_

**Mom  - 8:30 pm**

_Well, I just had a feeling._

**Clarke - 8:30 pm**

_A feeling._

_Oh. The medium was tonight wasn’t she._

**Mom - 8:31 pm**

_Maybe._

**Clarke - 8:32 pm**

_So apparently some strange women knows more about my life that I do. Fabulous._

 

**Mom - 8:32 pm**

_She just hinted that you were seeing someone. I wanted to check._

**Clarke - 8:33 pm**

_I’m not._

**Mom - 8:34 pm**

_Okay, okay._

_Also, I can send you groceries if you need some!_

**Mom – 8:41 pm**

_So do you need the groceries?_

**Mom - 8:42 pm**

_She said whoever you might be seeing wears a lot of white t-shirts._

**Clarke – 8:42 pm**

_Thanks but I’m good. I haven’t stooped to the level of delivery-grocery laziness._

 

**Mom – 8:54 pm**

_Funny t-shirts too!_

**Clarke – 8:54 pm**

_MOM. I am not dating anyone._

_And stop asking the medium about me._

**Mom – 8:55 pm**

_Sorry. Love you._

**Mom – 8:56 pm**

_You’d tell me if you were dating someone, though, right?_

 

**Clarke – 8:56 pm**

_Mom._

_Goodnight._

**Clarke – 8:57 pm**

_Love you too._

* * *

The bar was loud, but not even the rowdiness of Trivia Friday could drown out the sound of Raven’s laughter. Nursing her beer, Clarke glared at her friend, who was laughing at her, not with her.

She never should have told Raven about the text conversation with her mother.

“It’s not funny,” Clarke muttered, licking a bit of foam off her upper lip.

“Oh, it’s fucking hilarious,” Raven replied in utter delight.

“For you,” she complained. “You’re not the one getting accused of concealing a non-existent significant other!”

“Oh, no! The worst!”

“Shut up. It’s terrible.”

“Clarke,” Raven said, laughing and knocking their glasses together. “It’s not that big of a deal. So your mom has some quirks. So does everybody’s.”

Raven’s eyes shuttered, and Clarke shifted on her barstool guiltily. She shouldn’t complain, not when it could be worse. So her kickass, super rational surgeon of a mother got wine-drunk with the other empty nester moms in their neighborhood and rallied themselves up to believing ghosts hung around and were trying to talk to them. Big deal, as Raven said.

“Just ask her to stop.”

“I can’t. It’s complicated,” Clarke sighed, taking another sip of beer.

“Why?”

Clarke smiled reflexively at her friend’s bluntness. It was one of the main reasons they made it through to becoming friends after the Finn debacle last year.

Her smile turned sad, however, as she explained, “I let it go because she was grieving. It helped her feel closer to Dad.” Clarke swallowed tightly, thinking of twinkling eyes looking up at her from over a tool bench and a rasping voice telling her bedtime stories, before continuing. “But it’s been three years now, and mom’s just getting pulled in deeper. That woman charges more than some minor procedures cost just to tell gullibles that their loved ones are ‘watching over them’ and ‘know things about the future’. It’s embarrassing. And I really hate it when she involves me.”

Raven pursed her lips sympathetically over the rim of her glass. After she took a few sips, though, she slid Clarke a sly glance. “So there are at least three guys in here wearing white shirts.”

“Raven.”

“No funny ones though. I mean, there are some that are horrendously awful attempts at humor, but no way will I allow you to date someone wearing only a semi-passably funny shirt.”

“ _Raven._ ”

“Oh! What if your s.o. is a ghost? That’s why the medium knows about them and you don’t?”

Clarke thunked her forehead on the table, moaning at her friend and wrinkling her nose at the tacky feel of the surface against her skin. Who knew what the stickiness was from. “I hate you,” she mumbled.

“This is going to be fun,” Raven chimed as Clarke felt her pat her head.

“It’s too early in the night for you two to be this drunk.”

Popping her head up, Clarke welcomed Bellamy, who had finally arrived. His tie was loosened, and his hair scrubbed of the stupid gel he always put in it for the office. Flashing them a tired smile, he looked like was ready to drink, but also like he was ready to win trivia. It would be their third victory in a row, something Clarke was very pleased about. At the moment, however, she was more occupied with the idea of getting Raven to back off.

“Oh good,” she said. “I need reinforcements. Tell her she’s being a terrible friend.”

Bellamy raised his hands. “Switzerland. I take no sides when it comes to you two.”

“What do you think of the guy in the white shirt who is pretending to drink that glass of whiskey?” Raven butted in, pointing not at all subtly across the bar.

“Looks normal,” Bellamy said cautiously.

“Then tell Clarke to go talk to him.”

“No sides, Reyes. Explain, I’ll evaluate, then give a fair decision.”

“You can take the lawyer out of the courtroom,” Raven trailed off in a mutter before perking up again and giving a quick, very embellished recap of Clarke’s predicament.

Expectedly, Bellamy laughed, but with her, not at her. “It’s like the beginning to a very warped version of a fairytale—”

“Don’t say it,” Clarke warned.

Bellamy smirked. “—princess.”

Glowering, Clarke reached out and pinched the underside of Bellamy’s large bicep, focusing on his pained exclamation and not how solid his muscle felt under her fingertips.

“I hate you  _both_ ,” Clarke complained, pinching Bellamy again when he swiped her drink and took a very large swig of it. “Get your own!”

“Can’t. I steal from the rich and give to the poor.” He grinned, pointing to her and then to himself. Clarke fought a smile, because it was a terrible joke, but also because a few months ago he would’ve said it snidely, a pointed barb at their disparate upbringings, instead of like now, used an inside joke, one of many they now shared.

“You’d make a terrible Robin Hood.”

“And like you’d ever be the Marion to my Robin.”

There was an undertone of seriousness in Bellamy’s voice that made Clarke pause, narrowing her eyes at his suddenly blank expression.

“Clarke, check out the girl who just walked in,” Raven interrupted, waving her hand around wildly. “White t-shirt!”

“This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it?” Clarke asked reluctantly.

“Fuck yeah,” Raven cheered, clinking glasses with Bellamy, who flexed a brief smile at the two of them.

“Et tu, Brute?” Clarke murmured as Raven face away from them, no doubt scanning for more suggestions to assault her with.

“There’s not even evidence that he said that,” Bellamy grumbled, reaching out for Clarke’s glass again but missing because she was quick enough this time.

She grinned, sipping triumphantly. “Going to quote some old dead white guy at me now as you ramble on about inaccuracies of Roman culture and history in popular media?”

“Shut up.”

Clarke laughed, bumping her elbow against his. Bellamy ducked his head in an attempt to appear wounded by her teasing, but she knew he really was just trying to hide a smile.

“Since you’ve tragically shot down every medium-approved guy in here, I think we’ll have to regroup,” Raven complained as she turned back around. “Too bad you’re not wearing a white t-shirt, Bellamy. Then all of Clarke’s problems would be solved.”

Clarke nearly choked on her sip of beer, but she kept drinking, staring resolutely at the amber liquid sloshing in her glass and ignoring the way her cheeks heated.

Okay, yeah, she’d thought about it before. He was hot, and funny, and was actually one of her closest friends now–though she’d never tell Raven that, because she’d be smug for weeks, satisfied that she had been right to introduce them despite their initial friction. So she had considered getting some benefits from their friendship, but then had decided, as she wanted to keep him around, it probably wasn’t a good idea. He’d never indicated he was interested in her that way anyways, so it didn’t matter. Still, leave it to Raven to make it awkward.

“May I point out that  _you_  fit the bill?” Bellamy said dryly, gesturing at Raven’s grease-stained white shirt.

“Been there, done that, we work better as friends,” Raven said with a smile.

Bellamy laughed, saluting her. “Touché.”

“I am not nearly drunk enough for this,” Clarke groaned.

“We can fix that,” Raven said with a grin, swiveling around towards the bar. “Shots it is!”

* * *

Clarke tasted staleness in her mouth, then blinked her eyes open. Groaning at the brightness, she pressed her face into the pillow. The sun continued to shine, however, and she slowly acclimated to the morning light.

It wasn’t until she sat up and her hands clenched into the dark gray comforter–hers was blue–that she finally registered she was in somebody else’s bed.

Oh fuck.

Panicking, she looked down and saw that she was wearing her bra and underwear still, which was a plus, but also a shirt that did not belong to her.

Oh  _fuck_.

She listened for sounds of someone else in the apartment, vaguely hearing plates clinking and what sounded like a whining coffee machine. With careful movements, because her head was pounding, she slipped out of the bed and began looking for clues as to whom she had gone home with. She stepped over way too many piles of t-shirts on her way to the desk, eyes scanning for anything helpful.

Clarke let out a sigh of relief when she saw the stack of law books and an open notebook with familiar handwriting. She went home with Bellamy.

A draft blew against her bare legs, reminding her of her state of dress, and suddenly all comfort at being in her friend’s apartment evaporated.

She went home with  _Bellamy_ , and she had woken up in his bed, wearing his shirt.

This time she swore out loud, spinning around looking for her jeans. Tugging them on, she stumbled for the door, striding out into the hallway. Easily finding the kitchen, because she had been here once or twice–just never in his actual bedroom, for god’s sake–she crept around the corner to find him making breakfast.

He grinned when he saw her, thrusting a full cup of coffee at her. “Morning.”

“What the hell happened last night?” She said, not moving any closer.

“We had a night of wild sex.”

Clarke made a choking noise, and then scowled when he started laughing.

Oh. He was joking.

“Mean,” she grumbled as she took the coffee finally.

“Well, only about the sex part. You had a night of wild something.”

She took a sip instead of responding, closing her eyes in relief as the strong, bitter flavor washed away the dryness and sour taste in her mouth.

“You really don’t remember?” He prodded as he turned to flip the eggs sizzling in the large frying pan. It smelled amazing, and Clarke tried to ignore the way her stomach rumbled, or the way Bellamy smirked at hearing that sound.

“I remember beers. And trivia. And complaining about my mother. And then shots?”

“Keep going.”

“And–and Raven started giving my number out,” Clarke mused, pulling at the hazy memories that were starting to return as the morning light and caffeine worked its way through her system. “I got mad, and chewed one of the guys out when he wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Good so far,” Bellamy repeated, sliding their breakfast onto plates and handing her one.

Clarke paused, shoveling in large bits of egg and bacon as she struggled to remember the rest. She couldn’t though, so she asked, “Help me out?”

Bellamy leaned back in his seat, looking at her amusedly. “There were more guys and girls involved. Your pick, this time. Though Raven was pretty supportive of your actions, regardless.”

Nothing clicked in her mind, however, so she shrugged helplessly.

“Check your phone,” he offered, voice almost bursting with humor.

Despite knowing she would regret it, Clarke pulled out her phone, seeing some texts from random numbers that she didn’t dare open. Instead, she went to her photos, thumbing through picture after picture of her cozying up to different people.

“What the hell,” she muttered under her breath, shooting a glare at Bellamy when he chuckled.

A a good number of them were actually attractive, and there was one girl Clarke definitely wished she had met under more sober circumstances. The one thing they all had in common though–

“Dark shirts,” she groaned. “They’re all wearing dark shirts.”

“And she remembers!”

“I didn’t.”

Bellamy grinned more widely at her, if that was possible. “You did.”

“Why didn’t anybody stop me?”

“You had your tequila game-face on. No one was getting in your way.”

Clarke grumbled as she flipped through the last of the pictures, which were not really pictures and more just dark blurs, or images of fingers over the lens. As she finished off her breakfast, she ventured into her text messages, quickly deleting the few unknown numbers. It wasn’t until she clicked on a new message from her mother that her stomach dropped.

“Oh no,” she breathed, eyes focusing on the happy emojis her mother had sent her, which was preceded by an emphatic  _I knew it!_

“What?” Bellamy asked, still amused.

Clarke scrolled up, and her horror at seeing the picture that had been sent to her mother–one of her crushed against Bellamy’s side, looking up at him fondly, her hand splayed across his chest, his  _white shirt_ -clad chest, because apparently he had been wearing one under his button-up–was tempered by the fact that he was now involved in this insanity too. She had no damn idea why that photo had been sent, or even taken, but it had, and now she had to deal with it. Or  _they_ had to deal with it, she realized.

“You really should have stopped me, for your own sake,” she taunted, handing the phone over to him.

His eyes widened slightly as he took in the picture–clearly he did not remember taking it either–but then he just shrugged, seemingly unruffled. “So? Your mom has met me. She knows we’re friends. No big deal.”

“Thanks to that picture, she thinks we’re dating, if you didn’t notice the million emojis.”

Bellamy snorted. “I seriously doubt that. Like I said, your mom has met me, and if you remember, I’m not exactly her favorite person. It’s just a picture.”

Clarke bit the inside of her cheek, because she did remember. She remembered very clearly how an innocuous comment about the local election at her family’s last Christmas party had ended in her mother and Bellamy pitted against each other in an intensely aggressive and passionate argument about the necessity of restrictions on welfare. Luckily Wells had intervened and brought them both back down, but the damage had been done, and since then, she had avoided having the two of them meet again at all costs.

“She definitely thinks we’re dating,” Clarke said, glancing down at the smiley faces again after taking her phone back.

“So just tell her we’re not.”

Drumming her fingers on the back of her phone, Clarke didn’t reply, an idea forming.

“Clarke,” Bellamy warned, because he knew her too well.

“What if–”

“No.”

“Bellamy.”

“ _No._ ”

“The damage is already done!” Clarke argued, waving her phone at him. “She’s never going to believe me if I try to tell her it isn’t true. And I really want her off my back about this before finals.”

He glowered at her.

“It’s your fault for taking off your button-up.”

“It was hot as balls in that bar.”

“Still your fault.”

“So you want to date?” His tone was frustratingly even.

“No,” she said quickly, eyes darting from his half-empty plate to his outrageously messy mop of dark curls, to his tense forearms folded over one another. “Not really. We can pretend, at least until I can come up with a legit reason for us to break up. That she’ll believe.”

“You’re serious,” he scoffed.

She looked him in the eye now, staring him down. “Yeah.”

“You are assuming I’m not already dating someone.”

“Oh.” Clarke’s lips parted in surprise, because she hadn’t thought of that. He never brought anyone around, and he was with their group quite a bit. “Are you?”

His jaw ticked, then he grudgingly responded, “No.”

She rolled her eyes, ignoring his dissatisfied grunt.

“And what do I get out of this?” He said finally.

“The knowledge that you are a really good friend.”

He raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“Alright,” she relented. “I’ll pay for your takeout for a month.”

“Octavia has me on a healthy eating kick. She paid off all the local places so they won’t deliver to me.”

He sounded so mournful that Clarke couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, then I’ll cover any of your book purchases for as long as we keep this thing going.”

“Better,” Bellamy hummed.

“And you’ll be pissing my mom off, probably. So that too.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as much as he tried to fight it, and she knew she had him. He rolled his shoulders, and then sighed.  “The things I do for you.”

She grinned at him, snagging a strip of bacon from his plate. He frowned at the theft, but she just laughed. “You’re the best.”

As Bellamy huffed in response, grease dripped from the last bacon piece in her hand, falling to land on the overly long hem of Bellamy’s shirt. His white shirt, she finally realized.

“Fucking asshole,” she groaned, glaring up at him. The outrageous amount of shirts on his bedroom floor made more sense now. “I’m betting the shirt choice was your idea. Really funny.”

“Blame Raven,” he said smugly. “I had nothing to do with it.”

Staring straight at him, she narrowed her gaze, trying to decide if he was telling the truth. There was no twitch to his lips, or revealing sniff of indecision. He looked right back at her, and all seemed fine, but her cheeks warmed because there was a spark in his stare, one that normally wasn’t there, one that had her, for the slightest moment, second-guessing her decision to make her relationship with Bellamy something more, even if it was just for pretend.

Apparently he noticed her hesitation, because he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Annoyed at herself, Clarke then did what she did best: she went on the defensive. Propping her hands up under her chin, she cooed,  “Thanks for breakfast, babe.”

Bellamy’s eyes went wide and his lips parted in surprise, but then he scowled so grumpily that she stopped fluttering her eyelids at him and broke out into a deep belly laugh.

_Oh, was this going to be fun._

* * *

It was a week before they saw each other again. Bellamy had a case wrapping up, and Clarke took the long weekend to go visit Wells, who wouldn’t stop laughing his ass off at her plan. She could still hear the sound ringing in her ears as she and Bellamy walked into Trivia together.

Texting an out-of-context ‘ _fuck you_ ’ to her childhood friend–really, he deserved it–she looked up in time to see Raven, Monty, and Miller at their usual table. Then the bridal march began to play quietly from somewhere among the group.

Clarke laughed, but Bellamy grumbled, “Shut if off, or I’m going to break  _all_ of your phones.”

“Here comes the briiiide, and the guy dressed in whiiiite,  _t-shirts._ ” Raven sang out, coughing on the last word.

Bellamy snatched up her phone, but when he tapped the screen, they both saw that hers wasn’t the perpetrator.

Clarke looked over to see Miller reveal his phone, waving it tauntingly, far out of reach.

“Dick,” Bellamy mumbled, flipping him off.

“Raven did tell you we’re not for real, right?” Clarke asked amusedly.

“She did,” Monty replied cheerfully. “You just have terrible choices in friends, who also have a horrendous sense of humor.”

Miller frowned at the insult, then grunted in protest as Monty plucked the phone from his hands and paused the music. Clarke bit back a smile as his cheeks then reddened when Monty didn’t give back the phone right away, instead typing in something quickly–his number, no doubt–before returning it.

It was a good thing she actually liked Monty, or she would’ve taken her revenge on Miller then and there.

“They better get over this soon,” Bellamy muttered to her under his breath as he turned to go get drinks.

“Relax. The novelty will wear off, and before you know it, finals will be here and I’ll dump you and everything can go back to normal.”

The challenging smile he flashed at her sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.

“Oh, so  _you’re_  dumping  _me_?”

“We’ve been not-dating a week, and you’ve already sent me five receipts for books,” Clarke sniffed. “I have earned the right to do the dumping.”

He shrugged with a smug smile. “I’m a fast reader. Sue me.”

“Sue a lawyer. Yes, of course,” she groaned, because he knew how much she hated the lawyer jokes, which is why he continually used them. “You could at least buy fun books, unlike  _Carpe Dentem: The History of Oral Healthcare in Ancient Rome_  and  _A Gaul-ing Defeat: Cultural Paradigm Shifts in the Aftermath of the Battle of Alesia_.”

“Like you know what fun is. When was the last time you read something other than a textbook with disturbing images of various dissected organs?”

She frowned. “I’m fun!”

“And you never specified what type of books I could purchase on your dime.”

“Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” he teased back.

She shoved him towards the bar, scoffing. “Asshole.”

“Asshole you’re not-dating!” He called over his shoulder.

Disgruntled, Clarke had planned on ignoring him when he returned, but he brought her a gin and tonic, so she shot him a grateful smile instead.

And, when he won them trivia with his knowledge of patent law, she forgot why she had even been annoyed with him in the first place. Maybe the gin was helping with that a little too.

“Our breakup better not ruin our winning streak,” she said, clinking her empty glass against his in celebration.

“I won’t let it if you won’t,” he replied, eyes dancing the dim light of the bar.

* * *

Two more weeks passed, and to Clarke’s surprise, not that much changed between her and Bellamy, aside from more mentions of him to her mother and a slight increase in the time they spent alone together. Before this whole ordeal, she hadn’t quite realized how much they actually hung out, so it was easy–almost too much so–to feign a relationship.

Cooking dinner together was a repeated activity, because she actually liked to cook and Bellamy was, as he had said, banned from takeout at his sister’s behest.

“Don’t ever tell Octavia, but this beats her lasagne by a mile,” Bellamy garbled out, his mouth full of pasta and sauce and ground beef.

Clarke smiled, twirling an elongated strand of melted cheese around her fork. “She still outdoes me with her moussaka.”

“True.”

Clarke chucked a tiny mushed ball of bread at him. “I bet I could learn, dick.”

“Where did you learn to cook, anyways? I assumed you had a five-star chef preparing all of your meals growing up,” he teased.

Her throat grew thick before she answered, “My dad, actually.”

Bellamy immediately looked contrite, and she threw him a soft smile.

“He was always good at making things, out of metal, out of his imagination, and out of food. It was magic, really, watching him in the kitchen. Never needed a recipe, just winged it. That was something I didn’t get from him, unfortunately.”

“A recipe girl, hm?”

“Like my mom,” Clarke mused. “She was actually pretty good at baking. Christmas cookies were always her best, though she’d get annoyed when Dad wouldn’t decorate them according to their shape. He made Santa into a wreath, and wreaths into stars, and one time he even rearranged the cut-out dough so all the reindeers had two heads.”

Bellamy’s laugh was so warm that Clarke felt her face flush. It had been a while since she had rambled on about her parents like that, and never to him. An itching sensation crept over the back of her neck, and she fumbled for her phone, needing to do something with her hands.

“Again?” Bellamy sighed as she snapped a picture of him and their meal. “You’re mother isn’t even on Instagram.”

“But it’s linked to my Facebook.”

“You’re not friends with your mother on Facebook,” he said in amusement.

“But I am with my relatives, and they are with her–”

“So that answers the question of whether I’m meeting the family or not.”

She shot him a dark look. “I’ve met yours.”

“O is my only family.”

He was smiling, but now Clarke was the one who felt contrite.

“I feel like Miller would be offended by that statement,” she added lightly, wanting to change the topic.

“Miller would be offended by you adding hashtags to that photo you’re posting.”

“I use them ironically!”

“I know. They’re still unnecessary.”

The fond scorn in his voice made her add at least three more hashtags to the photo before she posted it.

* * *

They eventually found out that Octavia had only bribed takeout places with actual meals, so the fourth and fifth weeks of them not-dating involved trips to a lot of ice cream shops and bakeries.

“I’m pretty sure I have diabetes,” Clarke said as she bit into an enormous brownie.

“I’m pretty sure an almost doctor should know you can’t develop diabetes in two weeks,” Bellamy shot back.

“I’m pretty sure you’re about to lose half of your cannoli.”

Bellamy swore, barely catching one half of the pastry as it crumbled in his hand. Clarke laughed at the way he stood helplessly with filling all over his palm, but her giggles turned into gasp when he smeared it on her cheek.

If his hand lingered a little too long, and his thumb hovered too close to her bottom lip, she ignored it. She berated him for the trick, swiping a little bit off and doing the same to him in retaliation. Secretly, though, the cold cream felt good against her suddenly heated cheeks.

Her phone pinged, and it was text from her mother.

 

**Mom - 2:35 pm**

_Are you and Bellamy free Saturday night?_

Clarke pursed her lips, locking her phone before tucking it away.

“What’s up?” Bellamy asked immediately.

She suppressed a sigh, wishing he couldn’t read her so well. She was  _not_ about to actually put him in her mother’s crosshairs, even if he had been insisting it would be fine. “It’s nothing.”

“You really need to work on your poker face. Your patients are going to be able to read bad news there before you even open your mouth.”

“It’s really nothing.”

Bellamy leaned over and stole a bite of her brownie, grinning at her as she jerked it away.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Mom wants to have us over for dinner, or at least that’s what I’m assuming.”

“Let’s do it.”

“You keep saying that. I still think it’s a bad idea.”

“I thought this whole not-dating thing was a bad idea from the start, but here we are.”

His tone was sharp, and she flicked an apprehensive glance at him. “Then you shouldn’t have gone along with it.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what did you mean?”

His jaw ticked as she stared up at him, the brisk breeze blowing his curls every which way. “Saturday, she wanted?”

Clarke nodded tersely.

“Tell her we’ll be there.”

Though she texted her mother a confirmation, which was apparently what Bellamy wanted, they didn’t speak much on the way back to the subway station, and he avoided her gaze when his train came.

Clarke pulled her coat tighter around her as she watched the door close on his back, for the first time wishing she had found another way to fend off her mother’s superstitions.

* * *

“Really?” She asked dryly as she opened the door of her mother’s house to greet Bellamy, his off-white sweater very obvious even under his jacket.

He grinned sheepishly, then teasingly as she scowled at him.

“We’ve got to sell this, don’t we?” He murmured stepping inside. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

She stuck her tongue out at him before hanging his jacket up. As her mother strode into the foyer, shoes squeaking on the tile floors, Clarke jumped when Bellamy slid a warm hand against the small of her back.

_So we’re really selling this_ , she thought as her mouth went dry.

Despite the way the pressure of his palm was causing her skin to prickle, she managed a steady smile at her mother, who was looking surprisingly accommodating.

“Come in, come in,” she urged. “Dinner is just about ready.”

“Don’t worry, I made it,” Clarke whispered.

“I heard that,” her mother called over her shoulder. “But it really was for the best.”

“I’ve heard you’re the one to beat when it comes to desserts though,” Bellamy added graciously.

Abby laughed and thanked him for the compliment. Clarke stared up at him, then back at her mother, utterly astounded by their civility.

Bellamy cocked an eyebrow at her. “What?” He muttered. “I can be polite.”

“I’m just adjusting to the fact that my mother might actually side with you after our breakup.”

He chuckled but didn’t get a chance to reply, as they had reached the table.

The dinner progressed in a surprisingly calm, even pleasant fashion, and it unnerved Clarke to no end. Even when talk of next year’s election came up, the debate that followed was lively but remained at a normal decibel level.

“So, any other plans for the weekend, Clarke?”

“Huh?”

Her mother shot her an amused look. “You seem a little distracted. Finals are coming up, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Clarke rasped out. “In a week or so.”

Coward that she was, she didn’t dare look at Bellamy. For as much as they joked about the impending end to their not-dating adventure, they had never really talked about specifics. Thinking about it at her mother’s dinner table was definitely not the best time to remember that.

“So the hibernating should begin soon, then. Well, I’m glad I got the tickets for tonight,” Bellamy announced.

She jerked her head towards him. “Tickets?”

“There was that new art exhibit at the MFA that you wanted to see, the one with the guy who does the mixed media stuff with watercolor?”

“Yeah,” Clarke repeated, staring at Bellamy with wide eyes.

“Um. Well, a co-worker had an unexpected family thing come up and was selling his tickets for a special showing tonight, and I only got them yesterday. I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure if we’d make it with the dinner–”

“Oh, we’re going,” Clarke insisted, and her mother laughed, standing up.

“Don’t let me keep you here. I know better to get between my daughter and her art.”

Surprised, and touched, as she was by Bellamy’s gesture, Clarke didn’t miss the speculative way her mother was looking at him. Hastily, she stood as well, eager to separate him from whatever her mother was trying to make him into. They were out the door in no time, and Clarke ignored the almost immediate pinging of her phone, not remotely wanting to see what her mother was texting her.

No sooner had the car door shut behind her that she began, “Bellamy–”

“Your mom loves me. Who would’ve thought.”

He laughed, and she joined in, albeit with less enthusiasm. Picking at her thumb’s nail bed as he reversed out of the driveway, she listened to him chatter about the exhibit, growing more sullen by the minute. This really was just a game to him, and it annoyed her, because it should be only that to her as well, and she had no idea when the hell all of this started to matter.

She was just about to ask him if they could skip the exhibit, if they could just go home, when he turned and smiled at her, so broadly, so genuinely, that her heart skipped a beat.

Oh,  _fuck_ , she thought as she mustered up a weak smile in return, finally realizing just exactly how screwed she was when it came to how she felt about Bellamy Blake.

* * *

**Bellamy - 12:37 am**

_Go to sleep._

 

**Clarke - 12:37 am**

_Rude. You assume I’m not already._

 

**Bellamy - 12:37 am**

_I know you’re not. Stop staring at the tumor slides. They’re going to give you nightmares._

 

**Clarke** **\- 12:39 am**

_I’m going to fail. I am so going to fail._

 

**Bellamy** **\- 12:39 am**

_Google ‘correlation between improved test scores and increased sleep’_

 

**Clarke** **\- 12:40 am**

_Lawyers. Think they know everything_.

 

**Clarke** **\- 1:32 am**

_If I fail out, do you think Raven would hire me as a tech in her lab?_

 

**Bellamy** **\- 1:40 am**

_GO TO SLEEP_

 

\- - -

 

**Clarke** **-** **9:03 am**

_I slept. Happy?_

 

**Bellamy - 9:04 am**

_Wow. A full seven hours! Gold star for you._

**Bellamy** \- **9:05 am**

_If you promise to try for eight for tonight, I’ll bring you Octavia’s meatball soup later._

 

**Clarke** **\- 9:10 am**

_DEAL_

* * *

Clarke walked out of her last final, irritation and something more somber clawing at her.

It wasn’t the test, because it had been surprisingly easy, at least for one written by Dr. Wallace.

She jiggled her phone, tapping it against her leg as she strode swiftly across campus, ready to head home and collapse in bed for probably multiple days.

Thoughts of relaxation were kept at bay, though, by the reminder of Bellamy, and his constant hovering during her studying–reminding her to sleep, bringing her food, helping her review her flash cards. He had been there, right there with her, more than ever, but now her last final was done, and the time on their not-dating deal was officially up.

Her eyes burned, and she huffed in frustration, because she couldn’t be crying. Not over this.

Unable to wait any longer–patience had never been her strong suit–she pulled up their text thread and tapped out a message.

 

**Clarke** **\- 3:57 pm**

_This is the official breakup text (hah, I win!). Feel free to use this as fodder for rebound hookups–I’ve kept you from the field long enough. Go sow your oats._

**Clarke** **\- 3:58 pm**

_And thanks, by the way._

 

She watched for a few minutes, pulse stuttering when three blinking dots showed up, and then wavered, and wavered, and wavered.

 

**Bellamy** **\- 4:07 pm**

_You’re welcome._

 

Clarke stared blankly at the short response for a few seconds before blinking away her tears and shuffling forward again.

With two words, he proved that he wasn’t worth crying over, and damn if she wasn’t going to make more of this than it apparently was.

* * *

“So you’re not coming to Trivia. Again.”

Clarke pointedly avoided Raven’s glare.

“I’ve got–”

“You just started classes again, so don’t even bullshit me with the homework excuses.”

“I’ve got boards in a few months! I need to study.”

“No, you’ve got a bad case of avoidance, and what you  _need_  is to get over this idea that the world will implode if you actually start dating Bellamy.”

Clarke ran her hand through her hair in frustration. “I’m not avoiding him.”

“Well, he’s avoiding you.”

“What?” That got her attention.

Raven rolled her eyes. “Guess who else hasn’t been to trivia lately.”

“He probably just has a big case he’s working overtime on,” Clarke said slowly, not wanting a reason to get her hopes up.

“He probably has his head as far up his ass as you do,” her friend muttered.

“Raven,” Clarke pleaded. “Please, just leave it alone.”

“Have you told your mom yet?”

Clarke ducked her head guiltily.

“You don’t fool me, Clarke Griffin,” Raven said softly, pulling her into a half-hug.

There was a vulgar retort perched on her tongue, but Clarke swallowed it down, sighing as she let herself relax into the embrace, because it wasn’t for nothing that Raven was the smartest of their friends.

She would have to tell her mother eventually, but the selfish part of her wanted to hold off, to stop life from moving forward, from moving back into reality, for just a tiny bit longer.

* * *

A week and a half later, Clarke growled at the loud banging on her apartment door, not wanting to leave her nest of blankets on the couch. Pausing her show, she stood up after another minute of the racket, sincerely hoping her landlord was not bothering her about suspicions of harboring pets again.

When she swung open the door, face scrunched in annoyance, her breath caught when she realized it was Bellamy.

“Can you sue the universe? Because I’d really like to try,” he bit out.

Flustered as she was, she didn’t get a chance to reply before a pile of oddly colored clothing was dumped at her feet. Bellamy tossed the now-empty laundry basket inside her apartment, then stepped over the heap of items to come inside himself.

“What the hell are you doing here this late?” Clarke asked, a bit offended. She hadn’t heard from him in two months, and here he suddenly was, rattling off complaints at her. “And what the hell is this?”

“ _This_  is the universe apparently sending me a big ‘fuck you, you idiot’,” he grumbled, gesturing towards the pile.

“I won’t argue with the idiot part,” she muttered, leaning down to pick up a piece of clothing.

She heard him huff at her comment but ignored him. It was a shirt in her hands, one that had once been navy blue, but now was discolored, a pale blue that was almost white with a few streaks and spatterings in a muted orange color.

“What the–”

“Bleach,” Bellamy said. “It got bleached. Never mind that I never use bleach, so how the hell it got into my load of laundry, I don’t know. But apparently, the universe was trying to give me a hint at the expense of my favorite shirts.”

Clarke glanced down at the rest of his clothing, all also discolored towards the lighter end of the spectrum. As her eyes landed on a t-shirt, and then two more, all bleached somewhat white, she started laughing.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “Oh my god.”

“If I can’t sue the universe, then I’m suing the medium, because I swear I was going to text you this week but apparently it couldn’t wait that long for me to–”

Clarke cut him off by grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down into a kiss–a long one, one that had her humming with pleasure, and satisfaction, then gasping as he pulled her roughly into him, molding her body tightly against his.

“You owe me a new wardrobe,” he breathed once she had pulled away for some much-needed air.

With a soft laugh, she pressed her nose into the hollow below his throat, growing warm at the tantalizing smell of his cologne. “My mother is never going to let me live this down.”

“Well, at least she won’t ask the medium about you anymore.”

“There is that,” she murmured, liking the way he tightened his grip on her as her lips brushed against his skin.

“There is that,” he repeated quietly before leaning down to claim her mouth in another searing kiss.

As Clarke sighed happily into the kiss, letting Bellamy tug her towards the couch, she decided that she didn’t particularly care if he wore white shirts, or black shirts, or whatever-color shirts, because she had him, and that was really all she needed, the universe be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out much better than I anticipated - I'd love to hear your thoughts :)
> 
> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!
> 
> Fun fact: Octavia totally put the bleach in Bell's laundry. I couldn't work it into the story, but she knew all about how hard her brother had fallen for Clarke, and how they'd screwed it up, and as she would tell Clarke later "Sometimes the universe needs a little help, yeah?"


End file.
